


The World Spins, Regardless

by ahab2692



Series: Blood in the Water, Fire in the Sky: A Love Story [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dark, Established Relationship, F/M, First Time, Gen, Humor, M/M, Original Character(s), Sequel, Sexual Content, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-19
Updated: 2012-03-19
Packaged: 2017-11-02 04:45:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahab2692/pseuds/ahab2692
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles helps Derek expand his pack, and the two of them take steps forward in their newfound relationship.</p><p>Meanwhile, new enemies arrive in the form of a dangerous pack of werewolves from a nearby town, as well as a pair of mysterious hunters with an unknown agenda.</p><p>(Sequel to "God, How Things Change.")</p>
            </blockquote>





	The World Spins, Regardless

Sometimes still, lying comatose in the folds of darkness in the charred and blackened hollow of the Hale house, he suffers through a restless night; fitful dreams of billowing smoke reaching up to choke out life, the scent of burning flesh permeating the flaking wallpaper. If he listens closely, swimming up to the surface of the nightmares and pressing his face against the crystalline membrane, he can hear the strangled screaming as his family burns. He can extend his hand to offer salvation, to offer aid, only to be denied the chance as he wakes to reality in a cold sweat, naked chest heaving as beads of perspiration roll down the curve of his cheek.

Or perhaps those are tears.

Yet he suspects that nights such as those will become fewer and fewer, now that, more often than not, he will sleep with a warm body lying flush alongside his own.

They don’t go too far on that first night. It starts with that soft, chaste kiss, their first of many, and gradually devolves into sloppy, animalistic nipping and panting, slipping hands under one another’s shirts for the thrill of skin-on-skin contact as they share in each other’s air. Derek pushes Stiles to his back (because, really, he can’t help himself) and starts up a rhythm, rolling forward and pressing him into the couch as his cock strains against the prison of his jeans. And he _really_ , very much intends to go all the way because his mind has gone haywire and he’s not thinking straight, but then Stiles makes this sort of high-pitched whimper, a truly lewd sound, and he bucks his hips up to meet Derek’s rhythm, and Derek just loses it right there.

He’s more than slightly mortified, wondering how the hell a teenager with no experience is capable of making him come in pants, something he hasn’t done since _he_ was sixteen. But Stiles just laughs, a little hysterically, and pulls Derek down into another kiss, less wild and more tender, and Derek’s insecurities just fizzle away. Maybe Stiles’ mouth has magic powers, he considers absently while bruising a hickey into the kid’s neck.

Later, once his head’s back on straight, Derek insists that they take the whole thing slow.

“Believe me,” he interjects over Stiles’ indignant squawk, “I’ve been having a hard enough time already keeping myself from slamming you up against the wall and fucking you until you scream,” - and, boy, does Stiles turn red at that - “however, I don’t think your father was making idle threats when he said he’d kill me if I hurt you. So we’re taking this slow, and we’re going to be careful, and that’s the way it’s going to be.”

“You don’t have to baby me,” Stiles scoffs. “I’m not _that_ fragile.” Instinctively, he backs up, flinching, when Derek crowds into his space, looming over him with a half-smug, half-fond expression.

“Yes you are,” Derek replies easily, running his thumb over Stiles’ cheek affectionately. “You might think you want me to fuck you now-”

“Jesus...” Stiles groans, slumping forward and burying his face against Derek’s chest.

Derek pushes him back gently with a reprimanding look. “You might think that now,” he reiterates, “but virgins tend underestimate how painful it can be the first time. So no rushing into it.”

“Why do you assume I’m going to be the bottom?” Stiles asks.

Derek just gives him a look that says _Oh, please_ , and that’s the end of that conversation.

***

They tell Jackson, figuring he’d find out on his own one way or another. He’s unperturbed.

“Didn’t know you swung that way, Stilinski,” he mumbles with a mouthful of sandwich. Swallowing it, he adds, “If I’d known that, I could have hooked you up with Danny last year.”

“So he _does_ think I’m attractive!” Stiles says triumphantly, pumping his fist in the air. He immediately drops it when he sees the look on Derek’s face. “I was just curious,” he says hastily, patting Derek’s arm in an attempt to placate him. “You’re the only one for me, sour wolf.”

Derek grunts irritably and Jackson smirks. “Someone jealous?” he sneers, then leans over to Stiles, wiggling his eyebrows conspiratorially. “You know, I believe I remember him saying he thinks you have pretty eyes.”

“Really?” Stiles asks, surprised and flattered.

“Jackson...” Derek snarls, and the two teenagers cringe away.

“Right. Sorry,” Stiles says awkwardly. “Bad Jackson.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jackson snorts dismissively, determinedly ignoring Derek’s glare. “Anyway, what are you going to do about your dad? Isn’t it, like, illegal for you two to be boning?”

Stiles chokes a little, and Derek claps him on the back, scowling darkly at Jackson.

“He already knows,” he says curtly, and Jackson just stares at him in disbelief.

“You’re kidding me.”

“Nope,” Stiles coughs, clutching a hand to his chest as he regains his breath. “It’s true.” He pauses. “Well, to be fair, I don’t think he knows we’re, uh, doing it. Actually, come to think of it, we’re _not_ doing it. Not yet. We haven’t gone all the way.”

“Jesus...” Jackson groans, rolling his eyes. “I don’t need to know that, dude.”

Ignoring his discomfort, Stiles says, “Point being, I’m pretty sure my dad’s justifying the whole thing in his mind by pretending that we’re not going to do anything sexual. Like it’s just holding hands and love notes and shit like that, you know?” Derek and Jackson stare at him, and Stiles sort of deflates. “Or maybe not. I’m just guessing. He and I haven’t really discussed it at all.”

“Not to poke a hole in your theory,” Derek says drily, “but from what I gathered during my little chat with your father, he seems somewhat more openminded than most people would be in his position.”

“Translation, he’s not throwing your ass in jail because it would piss off his only child,” Jackson says confidently. “I bet you anything he wouldn’t be so accepting if Stiles wasn’t his kid.”

Derek and Stiles grunt in unison, knowing that he’s probably right, but not wanting to admit it.

“Oh, wait,” Stiles says, perking up. “I almost forgot, dude.” He looks at Derek guiltily, shifting closer to Jackson in case he needs to use him as a shield. “My dad said that he wants you to come over for dinner tomorrow. So...yeah.”

Derek sucks on the inside of his cheek while Stiles stares at him anxiously. He shrugs nonchalantly. “Alright. Should I bring anything?”

The tension in Stiles’ shoulders drains away and he sighs relievedly. “No, just show up at six.”

Jackson snickers behind his hand. “Oh, fuck me...I would pay so much to be at that dinner.”

Derek punches him in the arm.

***

It starts out awkward as hell, and Derek expected as much, but it’s also nowhere near as painful as he’d feared, and after the first thirty minutes or so, they actually get a good conversation going.

Mr. Stilinski asks him about his aspirations for the future, about how long he plans to stay in Beacon Hills, about his life before returning home. It’s all surprisingly mild-natured, and while, sure, Derek has to lie about some of the details (after all, he can’t exactly dish on the latest werewolf news with the local law enforcement), he tells the truth where he can, and is startled by how comfortable he feels with sharing his inner thoughts with a man who is essentially a stranger. The sheriff is a rather affable man in this domestic setting, cheerful and relaxed without his firearm holstered at his hip.

Stiles seems a bit on edge, grinning a bit too widely and tapping his foot nervously, like he’s waiting for the friendly atmosphere to implode at any moment. Derek doesn’t blame him, but nevertheless reaches out to touch his knee under the table in a calming gesture, and Stiles chills out noticeably after that.

Somehow, the conversation moves into the living room, with Derek and Stiles sitting together on the couch and Mr. Stilinski in the armchair. The sheriff regales them with cop stories, and Stiles makes a big show of groaning and rolling his eyes dramatically - he’s obviously heard these tales a thousand times before - but Derek is riveted, hanging on every word with legitimate interest.

“You could take a leaf out of his book, son,” Mr. Stilinski chides, and Derek bites his lip to keep from smirking as Stiles makes a soft, disbelieving sound. “ _This_ is what paying attention looks like. This is how good conversation works.”

“I cannot believe this,” Stiles grumbles, getting up to refill his empty glass.

“It’s called showing respect for your elders,” Derek chimes in teasingly. “Maybe you should try it.”

Stiles scowls, then grins shiftily. “What are you talking about? I respect you plenty, Derek.”

It’s just a joke, innocently intended, but it strays far too close to the subject they’ve been carefully avoiding all evening, and Derek notices the sheriff’s face is as red as his own. The grin slips off Stiles’ face as he realizes he might have been a bit inappropriate, and he coughs awkwardly, excusing himself to the bathroom.

Derek and the sheriff sit for a minute in tense silence, and when it becomes clear that Stiles isn’t coming back right away, Derek decides to dive in headfirst and get it over with.

“How come you’re fine with this?” he blurts out quickly before he second guesses himself and chickens out.

The sheriff starts at his outburst, then gives him a small, lopsided smile. “Would you rather I not be?”

Derek shakes his head vigorously. “No, sir. I’m grateful that you’ve been...uh, understanding. But that doesn’t change the fact that it’s unexpected and a little baffling.”

Mr. Stilinski nods in agreement. “Fair enough.” He pushes himself to his feet with the armrests, grunting tiredly. “Care for a drink?” he asks, walking over to the cabinet.

“If you’re having one, sure. I won’t turn one down.”

“Jack Daniels alright?” he asks, holding up a large, half-empty bottle.

“That’s fine, thank you.”

The sheriff returns to his chair, filling up their glasses to the brim. “Cheers,” he mutters, and Derek raises his glass a fraction in acknowledgment. They sit for a minute without talking, just quietly sharing in the drink and silence. Then, “There was a boy a couple of years back,” the sheriff says quietly, stirring his drink absentmindedly. “Nothing ever came of it, I’m pretty sure. But I could tell that there was something different about the way Stiles talked about him. As opposed to the way he talked about Scott or that Jackson kid, or any of the other guys who knew at school. I know my son well enough to tell the difference between hero-worship and something...a little more emotionally involved than that.”

Derek listens carefully, focusing his gaze on the ice cubes swirling around in his glass. “I see...” he says.

“Point being, I’ve known for a while that there was always a chance that when he brought home someone special, it wouldn’t be a girl. I’ve long since reconciled with that.” He looks up then, and Derek looks up too, meeting his stare levelly. “I love my son,” Mr. Stilinski says calmly. “All I really want in this world is for him to be happy.” He sets his glass down, fixing Derek with a shrewd look. “Do you feel uncomfortable with it?” he asks bluntly. “The age difference, I mean?”

Derek looks down at his hands, biting his lip. “Yes,” he answers honestly. He glances down the hall to make sure Stiles isn’t listening in. “It bothers me every day.”

The sheriff looks satisfied, leaning back in the chair. “But you love him, don’t you?” he replies quietly, and his expression is softer now.

Derek nods. “Yes. I love him.”

Mr. Stilinski smiles ruefully. “Well, there you go. That’s why I’m fine with it.” He takes a long swig of the whiskey and sighs heavily. “I believe you, and I can tell that you genuinely care for him. And he cares for you. So I’m not going to put a stop to it for the sake of my own delicate sensibilities. My son’s happiness is more important to me than my own comfort.” He grins darkly, flashing Derek a sly look. “Besides, if I’d suspected, even for a second, that you were some sort of predator trying to take advantage of him...believe me, they would never find your body.”

Derek chuckles nervously. “I don’t doubt that, sir.”

“That said,” the sheriff adds, “you should probably keep in mind that most people won’t see it quite like I do. So I’d highly recommend keeping this as quiet as possible. At least until he turns 18. Otherwise, I might not have any choice but to get involved. Understand?”

“Yes, sir. We’re in agreement.”

“You will use condoms, you will not push him to go further than he’s comfortable with, and most importantly, you will never, ever have sex under my roof. There are some things a father doesn’t need to hear. Are those terms acceptable?”

Derek flushes red with embarrassment. “Yes, I think I can manage all of that.”

Mr. Stilinski surprises him by patting his hand encouragingly. “It’ll get easier,” he promises. “The guilt, I mean. If you two work well together, the strangeness of him being younger will eventually fade away. Just give it some time.”

Stiles returns at that moment, huffing grumpily as he eyes the near-empty bottle on the table. 

“I leave for, like what, five minutes, and you break out the booze?” he mutters. “If you’re getting drunk, you might as well let me join in.”

“Not a chance in hell,” his father replies without missing a beat. “Refill, Derek?”

“Oh, if you insist,” Derek says casually, enjoying Stiles’ outraged expression.

***

It’s later the next day, and they’re walking together through the woods when Stiles decides to bring it up. 

“We need to start recruiting,” he blurts out abruptly, shrinking back to gauge Derek’s reaction with a wary eye.

Derek looks half-surprised, half-amused, the corner of his lip twitching upward.

“Do we?” he responds ambiguously.

“Yes,” Stiles says firmly, holding his chin up in challenge. “You said it yourself, we’re going to need more than just you and me and Jackson if another threat comes along. And I’m not especially useful as far as the physical violence and punching things goes, since I’m not a werewolf.”

“I thought you said we’d have Scott,” Derek says blankly. “Once he ‘comes around,’ as you put it.”

Stiles chews on his lower lip irritably. Why does Derek have to make things so damn difficult?

“Look, I said I _thought_ that’s what would happen. I still do. I still think he will.” He shuffles uncomfortably, kicking a patch of grass with his heel. “It just might take a little longer than I’d anticipated. Besides, he’s still on his little bullshit quest with the Argents, and I don’t know when they’re coming back. He told his mom he was going camping with Allison, but I’m sure she’ll start asking me questions if he doesn’t come home soon.”

Derek nods, dropping the subject. “What about Lydia?” he suggests. “Once she wakes up? She’s already involved, so we might as well have her on our side.”

Stiles shrugs in half-hearted agreement. “I don’t know if she’ll be too keen on the idea. And we’re not going to force anyone into this.” He hesitates and Derek’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “Also,” he adds cautiously, “there’s history between her and Jackson. And her and me, sort of. Kind of.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Alright, so we’ll see about her. Do you have anybody else in mind.”

“Yeah,” Stiles nods. “I think we should ask Danny.” Derek makes a sort of irritated snarl that would be hilarious if Stiles didn’t still find it terrifying. “I swear to God I don’t have a crush on him,” Stiles says quickly. “That’s not the reason. I just think it makes sense because 1) he’s Jackson’s best friend, and having him on board would be a major help keeping Jackson from being a total dick, 2) he’s already suspicious about stuff, and if we don’t tell him, he’s probably going to find out anyway, and 3) he’s actually a pretty cool dude, and I think you’d like him if you gave him a chance.” Stiles takes a deep breath. “So yeah. I think we should start with him.”

Derek frowns at him for a moment, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“You’re sure he’ll say yes?” he demands.

Stiles shrugs, wincing when Derek growls lowly. 

“I’m pretty sure,” he says timidly. “Like maybe 90% sure.”

Derek pinches the bridge of his nose, praying for strength. “Alright,” he agrees grudgingly. “Set it up.”

***

He hates to admit it, but it looks as if Stiles made a good call.

Danny is shocked, as one would reasonably expect, but he doesn’t flip out or run away or have a heart attack. And once the initial shock of seeing Jackson transform before his eyes wears off, he’s actually eerily calm about the whole thing, listening patiently while Stiles explains the situation.

“So...” he says tonelessly after Stiles finishes talking. “Werewolves are real.” He looks at Jackson accusingly. “And you’re one of them.”

Jackson actually has the decency to look a bit ashamed. “I was going to tell you,” he mumbles. “Eventually.”

“To his credit,” Stiles steps in to defend Jackson, “Derek didn’t turn him until somewhat recently. So it’s not like he’s been lying to you forever.”

Jackson shoots him a grateful look, but Danny isn’t entirely appeased. 

“That’s another thing,” he says, frowning between Derek and Stiles. “Derek, is it? As in, _not_ Miguel?”

And now it’s Stiles’ turn to look ashamed. “Yeah,” he says apologetically, scratching the back of his head. “He’s not actually my cousin, either.”

“I figured that out myself, thanks.” Danny rubs his face wearily. “Alright, so you three and Scott...anyone else I know?”

“No, that’s it. And technically, I’m not a werewolf,” Stiles interjects, perking up. “I’m sort of like the lovable sidekick.”

Derek rolls his eyes. Time to cut to the chase.

“We’re inviting you into the fold,” he says bluntly, and Stiles scowls at him for stealing his thunder. “We’d like for you to be a part of the pack.”

“What makes you think I want to join?” Danny asks, but Derek can see the interest dancing in his eyes, can smell the excitement mingled in his scent.

“Because it’s fucking cool,” Jackson suggests, and wow, that’s not helpful at all.

“Because we’re probably going to have to deal with some very, very bad people coming after us,” Stiles cuts in. “Even if we lay low and don’t do anything wrong, there will still be people who want to kill us on principle alone. And we need more people on our side. We need people we can trust.”

Danny is listening intently, and he looks at Derek as if silently asking for confirmation of Stiles’ words. Derek nods his agreement and Danny seems somewhat satisfied.

“Come on,” Jackson pleads with him. “I need you, buddy. Please?”

That seems to melt the last of his resolve, and Derek knows they have him.

“You should be aware,” he interrupts before Danny can say anything, “you won’t be able to back out if you change your mind later. If you need some time to think about it...”

Danny shakes his head. “No,” he says, and Derek can sense his nervous energy. “No, I don’t need to think about it. Just get it over with quickly.”

Derek shrugs, stepping forward and revealing his fangs, eyes flashing red. “Bare your throat.” Danny cringes away.

“Don’t worry,” Stiles says soothingly, patting his shoulder before stepping out of the way. “It’ll be okay.”

“Yeah, it hurts at first, but the pain won’t last long,” Jackson adds.

Danny swallows hard, but molds his face into an expression of determinedness. “Okay,” he says, tilting his head back and squeezing his eyes shut. “Do it.”

***

They arrive from out of town, from a place far beyond the state borders. 

They’re a pair, he with his checkered flannel shirt and black hat, she with her razor blue nails and blood red scarf. No one asks for their names, and no names are provided. They check in at the dingy motel over by the underpass; the one near the burger joint that’s become a hot spot for the high school kids over the past several years. They stay in throughout the day and take to smoke and drink in the dark corners of various bars at night, lying in wait for some sort of sign; biding their time to reach out and strike. 

To the watchful eye of a prying outsider, the lazy pace of their inscrutable vigil might appear to indicate the workings of cautious operatives. One might justifiably assume their inhuman patience is representative of their character, of their need to be certain before making a move.

Yet such an assumption would prove foolish when measured against the decidedly colder reality: they are counting up targets, investigating only so far as to determine the number of names to add to their kill list. Questions of proper moral behavior are foreign to people such as these.

Black Hat is uncannily average in appearance, has one of those faces that blends with ease into the fabric of a crowd without sticking out. The skin of his hands is rough and marked by calluses; his shoulders are broad and bony. Sitting in the back of the bar with  a cigarette caught between his yellowing teeth, legs propped up casually on the unused billiard table, he shouldn’t make for a striking image. Yet the frequent patrons of the establishment will attest that, during those hours when the man stops by for a round of booze and a game of darts, the place is permeated by an indefinable disquiet. A sense of evil.

Red Scarf is tall and pale, a delicate-looking creature with the face of a goddess, a woman who turns the heads of all the men without even having to carry herself in an imitation of flirtatiousness. She exudes raw sexuality. Her eyes are golden, they are fire.

Yet, even more so than her partner, there’s something icy in her manner. Something off that runs deeper and darker than the usual measure of moral insanity one might expect from a damaged being. She holds men’s gazes and keeps them steady, and they are prisoners to their lust for her. But no one dares approach her; there are none with the courage to speak their mind. For all who look upon her face can see without doubt that she will give up nothing to any who ask for everything.

All one can anticipate from the likes of these two is trouble.

All one can expect from them is death.

***

“He’s adjusting well,” Stiles tells him as they lie together on Derek’s mattress in the twilight hours of the day, propped up lazily against the backboard as the stream of sunlight shining through the windowpanes fades into dusk. “He’s taking to a lot quicker than Scott did.”

“I probably have you to thank for that,” Derek admits, running his thumb over Stiles wrist  where their hands rest together. “I could have used you when I was trying to get Jackson to submit. Would have made that process a hell of a lot less painful.”

Stiles tilts his head from its spot against Derek’s shoulder to look up at him. “You should have asked,” he says softly. “I would have helped.”

Derek snorts. “I was busy avoiding you,” he murmurs back, breath tickling Stiles’ forehead and making the boy shiver. “Remember?”

“Yes. Fucking annoying, that was.” Stiles lowers his head back to its resting place. “But you’re done with that now, aren’t you? No more being all insecure and mopey, right?”

Derek thinks about it for a moment. “Nothing I can’t handle,” he replies honestly.

Stiles twists out of his grip, turning to look at him again, frowning. “You’re not still freaking out?” he says disbelievingly. “Is this a gay crisis? Or is it the age thing again?” Derek glances away and Stiles groans. “It is, isn’t it? Jesus, dude. We practically have my dad’s blessing. What more do you want?”

“We can’t pretend it doesn’t matter, Stiles,” Derek explains patiently. “We’re at different levels of maturity, in multiple respects.”

“Is that a dig at me?” Stiles interrupts, annoyed. “Because if it is, I’ll have you know that just because I act like an idiot sometimes, that doesn’t mean I’m not mature. I can be very mature when it matters."

Derek resists the urge to laugh, maintaing a serious expression. “Your dad’s been great about it, but we could get in a lot of trouble if the wrong people find out.”

Stiles waves that off. “So we don’t tell them. In fact, who the fuck are we going to tell, anyway? He may be a tool, but Jackson’s not going to betray us. And I’m pretty sure Danny will figure it out, but he’s gay, so he’ll get it. Probably, maybe. And apart from that, who else do we have to worry about? I don’t have that many friends. Definitely none that I’d share something like this with. And everybody in town is scared to death of you, so you’ve got no one to tell. _And_ I get the sense that you’re not really a PDA kind of guy, so it’s not like we’ll be walking down the street holding hands or some shit. So what are you talking about?”

This time, Derek doesn’t even bother to conceal his amusement. “That speech sounded pre-planned,” he says slyly, flipping Stiles on his back and straddling him in one swift motion. “Have you been anticipating this conversation?”

“Maybe,” Stiles says breathlessly, pupils dilated and breathing shallowing as he looks up into Derek’s eyes, running his hands up and down his arms. “So what? I figured you might be an idiot about all of this, so I went through every dumb reason I could think of that you might come up with as an excuse for us not to be together, and then I figured out all of the reasons why your reasons are retarded.”

Derek pulls back to peel his shirt off, and Stiles gasps softly, breath hitching in his chest.

“You might want to be careful, Stiles,” Derek says huskily, gazing down at him with heavy lidded eyes. “I can get pretty possessive.” He bends down to nip at Stiles’ neck, drawing forth a desperate whimper. “If you want to be mine, then you’re _mine_. Understand?”

“Yes,” Stiles whispers, squirming beneath him helplessly. “Yes, yes yes.”

Derek laughs quietly, capturing Stiles’ mouth with his own. “Good.” He tucks his fingers under the hem of Stiles’ shirt, lifting it up slowly. Stiles arches his back off the mattress so Derek can pull it the rest of the way and drop it to the floor. They stare at each other for a few seconds, both panting heavily, starting to sweat. Derek is practically drowning in the scent of Stiles’ arousal. It’s intoxicating. “Are you ready for this?” he breathes out, voice shaking a bit. “Do you consent?”

“Fucking hell,” Stiles groans, bucking his hips upward against Derek’s. “What the fuck do you think, asshole?”

“Stiles...”

“Yes, Jesus. Yes, okay!” Stiles cups a hand around the back of Derek’s neck, pulling him down into a rough kiss. “Yes, I consent,” he mumbles into his mouth. “Now will you stop stalling and fuck me blind?”

Derek’s eyes grow dark, then flash red, and he’s totally gone.

It’s all tongues and sweat, hands grasping at each other’s hair, yanking and pulling and rolling forward up against one another. Somewhere in the middle of Derek kissing a bruise into Stiles’ neck, they both lose the remainder of their clothing and somehow intertwine into a tangle of limbs, moving as one, heat gathering between them like fire on flesh.

Derek barely has the presence of mind to prep Stiles before entering, thrusting into him with fingers like a jackknife, slowing momentarily as the boy shudders violently at the intrusion. And then he’s turning him over and pulling him into his lap, pushing him down and pressing against the entrance.

And then he’s in, and he’s twitching forward, slowly at first, then gathering momentum as Stiles groans in pleasure. He wants to hear that obscene, beautiful sound every day for the rest of his life.

Stiles doesn’t last too long; not unexpected since it’s his first time. His teeth clench in exertion, a choked sob wrenching forth from his within his chest as he comes all over the sheets, body going limp as he exhales, finishing. Derek only goes on a bit longer, and then he allows himself release as well, and he can feel Stiles’ body shiver around his cock as he pulls himself out, rolling over to catch his breath.

It’s dark outside now, and they ought to turn on a lamp or something, but instead they just lie there together, hands casually drifting together to touch lazily as their heartbeats slow to regular tempo.

Derek looks over at Stiles, reaching out to touch his cheek. It’s still flaming hot.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

Stiles breathes deeply, cupping Derek’s outstretched hand with his own, turning his face to kiss it gently. It should be a cheesy gesture, but for some reason, it makes Derek’s heart flutter instead. 

Shit. The kid’s turning him into a sap.

“Yeah...’m fine...” Stiles murmurs sleepily. He chuckles. “We didn’t use a condom.”

Derek blanches. “Oh, shit. Sorry.”

“No problem. Wait...you don’t have, like, AIDS or something, right?”

“No.”

“Okay, good. Then yeah, no problem.”

Derek bites his lip, feeling like an idiot for being nervous. “Was it...” - he pauses - “...was it good for you?”

Stiles opens his eyes, and Derek can see them glimmering in the moonlight. “Well, I’m probably not going to be able to walk straight for several days,” he jokes, “but other than that, it was fucking amazing. I can’t believe I’ve been missing out on that for all this time.”

Derek snorts. “You say that like you would have been ready for it several years ago.”

“I would have been,” Stiles says assuredly, scooting closer to lie up against Derek’s side. “Seriously, I would have.”

“Well I wouldn’t,” Derek yawns, ruffling Stiles’ hair. “I don’t care how much I love you, I would never have gone for you at 13.”

He hears Stiles breathe in sharply and freezes up.

Because now he’s said it. He’s put it out there without meaning to, and now there’s no way he can take it back. He can try to play it off like a joke, but Stiles has always been too good at seeing through his bullshit.

He feels a sudden surge of self-loathing rising up. He shouldn’t have done that. It’s not fair to tell a vulnerable kid that you love him, not fair to make him feel like he has to reciprocate that level of intimacy without being given the chance to experience other things first. It’s selfish and cruel, and he should not have done it.

But when Derek turns fearfully to gauge his reaction, Stiles is looking at him with such stunned adoration, he’s torn between hating himself and wanting to kiss the boy again.

“You love me?” Stiles asks in a small voice, as if he’s unsure he heard correctly. As if he can’t believe someone like Derek would ever say that to him and mean it. As if he thinks he’s not worthy.

And Derek knows that, however unfair it may be, he has to be honest now.

“Yes,” he says, pulling Stiles close to his chest. “Yes, I love you.”

Stiles is too shocked to reply, but he doesn’t need to. Derek can tell by the thrumming of his heartbeat that he feels the same way.

***

Lydia finally wakes up, and Stiles goes to tell her everything. Might as well bite the bullet on that one, he figures.

She accepts it even more easily than Danny, and Stiles can’t believe his luck. Although, to be fair, being virtually fucking eviscerated by Peter Hale might have something to do with the ease with which she takes everything. Empirical evidence like that tends to stick with a person.

“Why didn’t I change?” she asks, completely deadpan. It’s her first question, and it’s a reasonable one, but Stiles still has to bite the inside of his cheek from laughing at how calm she is. “If it works the way you described, shouldn’t I be...you know, one of them? Why am I still human?”

Stiles shrugs. “Beats me. Derek doesn’t know either. But we’ll figure out. Don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried,” she says immediately, but it’s not bitchy. She rubs her eyes tiredly. “This is...this is something.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees. “It’s definitely something.”

“I think it’s something I need,” Lydia says thoughtfully, and _that’s_ a bit of a shocker. Stiles hadn’t even brought up the subject of joining the pack yet.

“What do you mean?” he asks, trying not to gape at her like a moron.

“Exactly what I said,” she replies with an indifferent shrug. “I’m already in on this. If having your insides ripped open doesn’t make you part of the team, I don’t know what does.”

Stiles knows better than to argue with Lydia when she’s made her mind up, but this is too important to just accept blindly. “Are you sure?” he asks, concerned. “This isn’t like a summer job, you know. It’s more like the mafia; once you’re in, you’re _in_. Although hopefully there will be a lot less shooting and killing and stuff.”

Lydia gives him a weird look that could either be fond or disparaging. “What else am I going to do?” she scoffs. “Graduate high school and go to college? Get myself a fancy piece of paper that says I’m smart enough to do a mediocre job, then _do_ said mediocre job for the rest of my life? Maybe get married and pop out a couple screaming kids, and get fat and lazy and sit around the house watching TV until I die? No thanks, Stiles. Not for me.”

“Jackson’s part of the pack,” Stiles interjects, and Lydia’s eyes flash dangerously. “He’s a dick, but he’s one of us now. Are you going to be able to work past your...history?”

The look she’s giving him now is definitely fond. “We’re not going to be teenagers forever,” she says gently, sitting up with a wince in her hospital bed. “I haven’t forgiven that son of a bitch yet, and yeah, it’s probably going to be really awkward between us for a while. But the things that matter when you’re young tend to become irrelevant as you get older. I still have feelings for him, but I’m not worried about it. We’ll resolve our issues when the time comes.”

Stiles nods, placing a hand on her knee. Lydia grins at him openly, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Besides, you guys are going to need me. Not just because your little club is overwhelmingly male-dominated, and _that_ needs to change, but because having me on board is the best way to get Scott back.” Stiles flashes her a confused look and she explains. “Allison and I have gotten really close. Having me on your side is good way to get _her_ on your side. Ergo, having me on your side is a good way to get Scott on your side. Comprende, amigo?”

“Yes,” Stiles grunts, annoyed. “I’m not an idiot.”

“I know you’re not,” she says softly, giving him a thoughtful look. “You know, for the longest time, I thought you were just some loser with a hard on who would eventually grow out his crush.” She pats his hand affectionately, surprising him. “It looks like I was right about that last part, but...you’re definitely not a loser. You showed me I was wrong that night.” She squeezes his hand. “Just thought you should know that.”

Stiles swallows, looking away, flushing. “Thanks,” he murmurs.

***

Derek picks up the stranger’s stench immediately, and his hackles raise in anticipation of a fight, but it seems that the guy is alone; a scout, most likely.

He’s a scrawny little weasel of a man with a long, pointed nose and beady brown eyes. His thick, greasy hair is combed back over his ears; his grubby hands resemble rat’s claws. His scent is repugnant.

He approaches Derek on the street with a knowing smile, ignoring the bigger werewolf’s threatening growl.

“So you know what I am, and I know what you are,” the scout says, his voice gravelly and unpleasant. “But I also know _who_ you are, so perhaps we ought to have a little chat, don’t you think?”

They go to little cafe in the downtown area. Neutral ground. They order coffee and sit by the window, facing each over evenly. No one steps forward to bother them.

“What is this about?” Derek cuts to the point. “Why are you in my territory?”

The scout’s eyes gleam, his twisted grin widening. “Your territory, is it? I was under the impression this town where Peter Hale made his mark. Or am I mistaken?”

Derek’s heart skip’s a beat, and he can tell by the other werewolf’s smirk that he can hear it as well.

“How do you know about that?” Derek snarls lowly, leaning forward. “Where did you learn that?”

The werewolf clucks at him reproachfully. “Come now, what a waste of a question. Does it really matter?” Derek just snarls again, and the scout sighs dramatically. “Very well. Let’s just say that your uncle and my Alpha have a history of sorts. And apart from that, our pack makes it our business to be aware of the happenings in the neighboring cities.” He leans back in his chair with a creak, folding his arms. “I come from a city on the other side of the forest. Far enough that you won’t be able to guess which one, but not so far that we cannot keep up with everything happening here.”

Derek’s jaw twitches and he bites the inside of his cheek to try and keep calm. “Get to the point,” he says roughly. “What do you - what does your Alpha want?”

The man stands, gathering up his jacket. “Submission,” he says simply, and Derek’s eyes flash red. “Willing or otherwise. We were willing to let your uncle run things his own way since several of our pack were indebted to him for various reasons...however, no such agreement stands in relation to _you_ , Derek. We have no cause to leave you be.”

Derek huffs out a mirthless chuckle. “So what is this, then? Some sort of turf war?” he spits out. “Don’t want another pack crowding in on your action?”

“Something like that,” the scout replies. He shells out some cash for the coffee. “Here’s the deal we’re willing to offer: flee, and we will not pursue you; stay and submit, and you can join our pack.” He gives Derek an ugly smirk. “Or you can stay and _not_ submit. And die. We’ll give you one month to get out of town.”

And with that, he’s out the door and gone before Derek can pick up his scent and track him down.

***

Danny and Stiles have grown better acquainted over time, and they’ve never fallen prey to the animosity that lingers between Jackson and Scott, but it would be a bit of stretch to call them friends, and a definite exaggeration to say that they’re close.

So Stiles is understandably surprised when Danny comes up beside him as he’s jogging down the road and asks if they can talk.

They take a detour off through the woods and rest down beside the riverbank, sitting together on the grassy shore and watching the sun disappear below the distant tree-line.

Stiles turns to look at him questioningly, unsure of what to say. “So, uh, what’s up, dude?” Might as well start soft.

Danny sighs, face buried in his hands. “There are some things...” he starts slowly, “...there are some things...about being a werewolf, I mean...”

He drifts off, and Stiles stares at him. He nudges Danny’s shoulder. “Yes?” he prompts.

“There are some things about being a werewolf that I, uh, hadn’t expected. Things I hadn’t thought about.”

Stiles heart sinks a bit. “Oh.” He looks down at his hands. “You’re having second thoughts.”

Danny glances up at him, surprised. “What? No, no. That’s not what I mean.”

Stiles frowns. “Oh. Okay. So...what _do_ you mean?”

“I...” He drifts off again.

“Come on, spit it out, dude.”

“I kind of have a thing for Jackson, alright?” Danny snaps, then immediately looks guilty and looks away.

And, okay, that’s not what Stiles was expecting at all.

“Oh,” he says. That’s all he can think of to say.

“Yeah,” Danny grumbles. “It’s not like a big deal or anything. I mean, I’ve always valued our friendship over everything else, and I would never...you know, _try_ anything. But it’s there, and it’s frustrating, and...” He breaks off, looking somewhat embarrassed. “I didn’t realize how hypersensitive you are. When you’re a werewolf, I mean.”

Stiles is confused for just a moment, then gets it. “Ah...”

Danny nods. “Exactly. So not only are my unfortunate feelings stronger than ever, but there’s also the fact that Jackson has been able to pick up on it for a while now...”

Stiles scratches the back of his head awkwardly. “I see. Umm...well. Has he said anything about it to you?”

“No.” Danny shakes his head, looking miserable. “Hasn’t even given off any hint that he’s noticed. But he _has_ to have noticed. I mean, I can pick up things you’re feeling right now without even trying. I might have been subtle, but I wasn’t _that_ subtle.”

Stiles puts a hand on Danny’s shoulder. “Look, man. He already knows that you’re gay, and he doesn’t have a problem with it. You guys are best friends.” He pokes Danny’s shoulder until he turns to look him in the eye. “I’ll be honest with you. I think Jackson’s an unbelievable tool-bag, and I’m pretty sure that I’m not his favorite person in the world either. But you two are like” - he makes a vague gesture that neither of them particularly understand - “...you’re like me and Scott,” he finishes lamely. “I get the sense that it would take a hell of a lot more than a little crush to ruin a friendship like yours.”

Danny still looks unsure, but his expression has relaxed a little. “I guess so.”

“It is just a crush, though, right?” Stiles asks before his brain catches up with his mouth. “I mean...Jackson? Seriously?”

“What?” Danny looks at him indignantly. “Even you have to admit he’s good looking.”

“Sure, I suppose. In a teeny bopper magazine cover sort of way. But still...”

Danny snorts in amusement. “At least my crush is age-appropriate.”

Stiles reddens, sputtering wordlessly. “Hey!” Then, a bit cheekily, “That’s more than crush, you douche.”

“Yeah. I know.” Danny’s nose wrinkles distastefully. “I can smell him on you.”

“Oh.” Stiles blushes even harder. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Danny says smugly. “I always pegged you for the submissive type. I’m just glad to be proven right.”

Stiles scowls darkly. Then something occurs to him, and his expression brightens. “You know,” he says slyly, and Danny looks at him warily, “Jackson told me that you think I have pretty eyes.”

Danny groans, covering his face with his palms. “Fucking hell. I’m gonna kill him.”

“I knew it!” Stiles crows gleefully. “I knew you thought I was attractive!”

“Don’t get carried away,” Danny retorts, shoving him playfully. “It’s just the eyes.”

Stiles sticks out his lip, pouting, and Danny just laughs at him.

They sit there for a while longer, enjoying the comfortable silence.

***

The fading wallpaper of the motel room has become a map of death, charting the connections between the parties involved. An expanse of Polaroid photographs, captured from a distance, peppers the wall like sharp, square bullet holes, each drawn together with a string of yarn held in place by a push pin.

There’s Hale, the younger one, kin to the last Alpha, and now Alpha himself. He’s at the center of it, that much is clear. He’s a recluse of sorts, hardly ever goes into town, and does so only then to gather food at the store or to congregate with his pack.

There’s that Whittemore kid, so out of control and unpredictable, he might as well carry a little sign on his forehead that reads “I’m a werewolf, shoot me please.”

There’s the Martin girl, still recuperating in the hospital. She’s not one of them yet, but she will be. She’s part of the pack. It will be easy to take her out, easier still to make it look like an accident.

There’s the matter of Whittemore’s friend, Danny. He’s new at this, they can tell. Which means that the pack is growing. Which means Hale is recruiting.

And then there’s Hale’s lover. The sheriff’s son. He hasn’t been turned, which is odd, but he’s as involved as the others, if not more so; at times he seems like the mastermind behind the whole operation.

Red Scarf doesn’t turn when the door opens behind her, just asks if it’s time.

Black Hat replies that it is.

They turn to the bed and open their chest of weapons, spreading them out in an organized array. 

They strike at dark.

***

“When will they come?” Stiles asks quietly, and Derek feels a swell of pride at how unafraid he sounds. The kid’s come a long way. “This other pack? When do we have to be ready for them?”

“He said they were going to give us a month to get the fuck out of dodge,” Derek replies. “I doubt they perceive us as much of a threat, so they’re not going to make us a priority.”

Stiles frowns, shaking his head. “Why are they doing this at all? What’s the point of attacking us?”

“They want our territory.”

“But that’s my point. We don’t have any territory. Not really. We just live here. Everybody has to live somewhere. It’s not like we’re a gang or something. We’re not trying to claim turf or some shit.”

Derek chuckles, smiling sadly. “You have to understand that they way we’re running this is not the way most packs operate. I’m...very unusual for an Alpha. Most of them are more like Peter. Or worse.”

Stiles makes a frustrated noise. “So they just want power for power’s sake?”

“Unfortunately, werewolves aren’t that much different from humans in that regard,” Derek responds. “Some people just enjoy control. Even without purpose.”

Stiles leans forward to brush his lips against Derek’s. “What should we do?” he murmurs.

Derek doesn’t have an answer yet.

***

It happens without warning, and it’s over within the course a few minutes.

It’s just near midnight, and Stiles and Jackson are together in town, drifting idly down the sidewalk with their milkshakes and making useless chatter when the first shots ring out.

The rifle report is softened by the silencer, but Jackson’s enhanced hearing picks it up in time to leap on top of Stiles, sending them both crashing to the ground before the wolfsbane tipped bullet shrieks by, shattering the antique shop window.

Jackson scrambles behind a nearby dumpster, pulling Stiles with him as the next bullet blasts black ash into the curb by their feet.

“What the fuck!” Stiles whispers breathlessly, pressing his body flat against the dumpster.

Jackson sticks his head around the side carefully, squinting into the pitch-black darkness. There’s a man in a checkered shirt and jeans walking purposefully in their direction, face cast in shadow by the brim of his hat, black scoped rifle held at the ready. There’s a flash from the muzzle, and Jackson whips back for cover as another bullet screams by the spot where his head was poking out.

“Got to be a hunter,” he says to Stiles. There’s fear in his eyes, but his voice holds steady. 

Stiles pulls out his phone, hands shaking badly. He sends a quick text to Derek:

_In town by the burger place. Under attack. Hunter. Watch out._

A blue pick-up truck turns the corner at the intersection up ahead, coming down the road towards their hiding spot. Jackson pokes his head out again, eyes darting between the truck and the man with the rifle. He turns back to Stiles.

“We still have like 30 seconds,” he hisses. I’m gonna draw him out and head off into the woods through the alley. You wait for the truck to pass, and run alongside it until you turn the corner up ahead. Then get the fuck out of here. Get Derek. I’ll find Danny.”

Stiles shakes his head, gripping Jackson’s arm. “Fuck no, bad plan! He’ll hit you, don’t be stupid! Hide behind the truck with me!”

Jackson’s jaw tightens, glancing back towards the oncoming vehicle. He shakes his head vehemently. “No time to argue.” He pulls his arm loose and pushes Stiles away, already starting to transform. “Run! Now!” Then he’s off, howling madly as darts into the alley, barreling through a hole in the fence. 

Stiles waits till he hears the crack of the rifle again before jumping out and running like a madman for the truck. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the hunter pause, turning  the rifle in his direction. The truck driver turns to flash him a bemused look before the rear window shatters and his head jerks forward into the steering wheel, blood splattering all over the dashboard.

“Oh god, oh fuck, oh god...” Stiles whispers hysterically, wrenching the door open and throwing himself flat on top of the dead man’s lap. He pauses for a moment to catch his breath, choking on the stench of death that stings his nostrils, bodily juices and brain matter dripping down into his hair.

He twists his neck to look up at the rearview mirror and sees the hunter heading towards the truck, pace quickening with every step.

Not even bothering to close the door, Stiles slams down hard on the gas, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles and keeping his head low. The next shot punches a hole in the front window, sending cracks spidering throughout the glass. The next hits the back left tire.

Stiles makes it a good hundred yards down the street, speeding as fast as he can, before the truck flips on its side as he turns at the light. The air bag smacks him in the jaw and he bites his tongue, drawing blood.

Trembling uncontrollably, he lies at an angle in the crushed interior of the car, straining his ears to hear over the still spinning wheels and the low cheerful hum of the radio cranking out an old Beatles tune.

As the spinning comes to stop, he can hear footsteps approaching and feels his heartbeat thundering in his eardrums.

_This is it. This is the end._

And then there’s a blood-curdling snarl followed by a strangled cry. There’s the sound of flesh being torn from bone, of ripping clothing and iron jaws crunching. There’s one final screech followed by a morbid, wet sound, and then silence.

Slowly, cautiously, Stiles pulls himself out of the vehicle, nearly gagging at the carnage displayed before him.

Derek is coming down from his wolf form, standing stark naked in the middle of the street, a pile of pulpy crimson skin and blood on the ground beside him. There’s a disembodied arm distorted by bite punctures lying on the sidewalk several feet away and something that might be a leg half-hanging out of the storm drain. The black hate has been torn to shreds; it’s pieces are scattered everywhere. Derek looks like something out a nightmare, baptized in redness and gore, the hunter’s unrecognizable head clutched in his fist. 

He turns to look at Stiles and his blazing eyes soften. He hurries forward to lift the boy out of the truck, running his hands all over his body, checking for injuries.

“Are you okay?” he asks huskily. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” Stiles chokes out, hating how high-pitched his voice sounds. “No, I think I’m okay.” He cocks his head at the sounds of sirens, growing louder off over the hill. Derek growls at the noise, but stops when Stiles puts a hand on his cheek. “There might be more,” he says, thinking on his feet. “Jackson went to hide with Danny. Go to Lydia.”

“I’m not leaving you here alone,” Derek replies instantly, clutching him tighter.

Stiles pulls himself out of Derek’s grip, no longer shaking. He gestures in the direction of the sirens. “I won’t be alone. I’ll be with my dad in like two minutes. Besides, I can’t just leave the scene. My DNA is inside the car.”

Derek snarls unhappily, knowing that he’s right but not wanting to admit. After a few seconds of hesitation, he sighs, shoulders slumping. “How the hell are you going to explain this?”

“The gunman was going for the driver,” Stiles says quickly, racking his brain for ideas. “He got hit and I reacted without thinking. I jumped in the car and tried to drive him to safety, and the truck flipped over when I made the turn. I didn’t see what happened after that.” He gives Derek a thoughtful look. “And that part is technically true. Now go.”

They stare at each other for a moment, then Derek’s turning and running off into the shadows just as the red and blue lights come speeding into sight. 

Stiles puts a hand over his eyes, clutching at his side as he limps forward to meet them.

***

It’s a hell of a thing to explain under any circumstances, but as it turns out, Stiles is much better liar than usual after going through the trauma of nearly being murdered. 

That, coupled with the fact that the cops are too sickened by the crime scene to really pay much attention to what he’s saying.

They take his statement down at the station, nodding sympathetically as he retells the tale with an unsteady voice and shaking hands. No one thinks to second guess the sheriff’s kid.

His father is waiting for him outside the interrogation room when he comes out.

“Jesus, son.” He pulls him into a tight embrace, and Stiles returns it willingly, finally allowing himself to relax as his heartbeat begins to return to regular speed.

“I’m okay, Dad,” he mumbles into his father’s shirt, patting his back placatingly. “I promise.”

“Are you sure? Do you need me to drive you home?”

Stiles shakes his head. “No, I’m fine. I just want to take a shower and go to bed. You finish up here, and I’ll head off now.”

His dad nods, looking worried. “Yeah, I think that’s a good plan.” He squeezes Stiles’ shoulder. “Don’t go anywhere else,” he says giving Stiles a look that he interprets as _Don’t go to Derek’s house._ “Go straight home. Understand?”

“Yes, Dad.”

Stepping outside into the parking lot, he immediately pulls out his phone to check for messages. There’s only one, and he’s startled to see that it’s from Scott:

_She’s safe. Get here ASAP._

***

Jackson’s guarding Lydia’s hospital room when he gets there, and he gives Stiles a relieved look and a quick nod before opening the door.

Everyone’s already there, waiting for him. Derek’s standing in the corner, arms folded, expression dark. Danny’s sitting in one of the cushioned seats over by the bathroom, rubbing his temples absently. Allison’s sitting by Lydia’s bedside, holding her hand tightly.

And Scott’s there, too. Just standing in the middle of the room. Just there. Like he hasn’t been gone all this time.

Stiles surveys the room for a second or two, mouth working noiselessly like a fish while everybody turns to look at him. Brain finally kicking in, he scowls and points accusingly at Scott.

“When did you get back?”

Scott stares at him like he’s insane. “Uh...I...like, just a couple hours ago. I mean...what? Does that matter?”

“Sort of, dude,” Stiles snaps crossly. “Where the fuck have you been? Shit’s been going down!”

“Shit’s been going down for me, too!” Scott says indignantly. “Why is your shit more important than my shit?”

“Well, I don’t know, Scott,” Stiles says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Does your shit involve getting shot at by psycho killer hunters? Or being threatened by the werewolf equivalent of the fucking mafia?” Stiles folds his arms, feeling a twinge of satisfaction at the dumbfounded expression on Scott’s face.

“Guys?” Lydia cuts in, annoyed. “Is the time or the place?”

Scott and Stiles stare at their feet, mumbling incoherently.

Derek rolls his eyes, pushing himself off the wall. “Lydia’s right. Cut the crap, boys.” He holds out his hand expectantly. “Alright. Give it here, Scott.”

Scott reaches into his pocket, pulling out a red-stained tissue. He puts it in Derek’s hand, and Stiles cringes when he sees that it’s a disembodied pinkie finger with razor blue nail polish.

Derek glares at Allison holding the tissue out at her. “Who is she?” he asks dangerously.

Allison shakes her head, leaning away with a grossed-out expression. “I already told you, I don’t know. I just recognized her in the parking lot from one of Daddy’s old photos. I thought she was a family friend.”

“More like a fellow hunter,” Derek replies icily, eyes flashing. “Another scumbag.”

Allison glares back, drawing herself up. “What do you mean, _another_? Are you trying to take a swipe at my parents? Because if so-”

“Not to interrupt,” Lydia interjects drily. “Because this is tons of fun. Really. But would someone care to explain why some crazy bitch tried to assassinate me?”

“Werewolf hunter from out of town,” Derek says, looking down at the finger in his palm distastefully. “She and her partner probably heard about the debacle with my uncle in the newspapers.” He glances at Allison. “Or maybe they heard about your dear Auntie Kate. In any case, all of those killings must have caught their attention. So they came here to clean up. To wipe us out.”

“That can’t be all there is to it,” Allison insists, frowning in confusion. “The hunters have a code. They don’t kill innocents and they don’t kill children.”

Derek scoffs derisively. “Please. Not everyone is as honor-bound as your parents. And even they don’t have the inclination to check their facts carefully before giving in to their bloodlust. They tried to kill your boyfriend, remember?”

“That’s not fair,” Allison snaps, standing up abruptly. “Don’t talk about things you don’t understand.”

“Guys!” Lydia shouts, interrupting before Derek can respond. “Jesus Christ! Can we talk about this like fucking adults, maybe?”

Stiles leans closer to Scott. “Wanna go outside and tell me what the hell is going on?” he whispers.

Scott nods, looking relieved for an excuse to get out of there.

They slip out into the hallway as the bickering gets louder, closing the door behind them quietly. Walking down the corridor a ways, they take refuge in a dark stairway, sitting side by side, shoulders bumping together in a casual gesture of affection.

Stiles rubs his palms together, unsure where to start. Scott helps him out by speaking first.

“I don’t know who she is yet,” he says softly, gazing out the nearby window grate as it starts to rain out in the early morning air. “The woman who tried to kill Lydia. Allison recognized her in the parking lot, and I got the sense that something was off. And then we walked in on her trying to inject something into Lydia’s IV drip while she was sleeping.”

Stiles turns to look at him, concerned. “But she didn’t hurt you, right? You’re okay?”

Scott smiles at him, gratefully at first, then craftily. “Me? She’s the one who lost a finger, buddy.”

“Your handiwork, I assume?” Stiles chuckles.

Scott flashes his teeth mock-menacingly. “Tastes like chicken.”

Stiles balks. “Gross.”

“But seriously, though. I’m surprised we were able to get the drop on her. Sort of makes me think she didn’t know who we were.”

“I guess we got lucky,” Stiles sighs, yawning sleepily.

"She got away, though."

"Doesn't matter. She'll be back. She won't give up that easily."

They don’t speak for a while then, just sit together in close company.

There’s a sound out in the corridor, and Stiles speaks quietly, barely louder than a whisper. “I missed you, man.”

Scott looks at him evenly, affection apparent in his gaze. “Same here,” he replies.

“I have a bad feeling about where things are going,” Stiles says carefully. “I fucking hate violence, but it seems sort of inevitable here. There’s going to bloodshed whether we like it or not.”

“Hmm...” Scott nods in agreement, hands clasped in front of him, elbows propped up on his knees.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, because I know the situation is a lot more complicated than this is going to make it sound like, but I really want you on my side.” Stiles bites his lip, uncomfortable with how emotional he feels. “If things turn bad between the pack and the Argents...and you know that’s pretty likely...I don’t want to feel like I have to go against you. You’re my best friend.”

Scott closes his eyes, sighing wearily. “I’m not going to betray Allison,” he says. “I won’t turn against her.”

“I know.” Stiles nods understandingly. “I get that. I wouldn’t ask that from you.”

“And I still don’t want to be a werewolf. Ultimately, I mean.” Seeing Stiles questioning look, he shrugs. “The cure didn’t pan out,” he says ruefully. “To be honest, I’m beginning to think Mr. Argent made it all up.”

Stiles frowns. “Why would he do that to you? I mean, he’s creepy and weird, and I don’t think he’d hesitate to kill any of us if he felt like it, but I don’t think he’s the type to pull pranks on teenagers.”

“Not a prank, idiot,” Scott snorts. “I think he wanted to get Allison and me out of town for a while after the stuff with Peter went down. Let things blow over and keep me out of sight in case hunters showed up.” He makes a grim expression. “Which they _did_ , apparently.”

That’s a surprise to Stiles, and it probably shows on his face. “So he was protecting you?”

Scott shrugs again. “What can I say? I’m just guessing. If I’m right, he probably did it more for his daughter than for me. You do what needs to be done to protect your family, you know?” He pauses momentarily, and Stiles can see the wheels turning inside his head. He looks at Stiles uncomfortably, chewing on his lip.

“What?” Stiles asks cautiously.

“Do you...” He trails off.

“What?” Stiles repeats, nudging him. “Jesus. Every conversation this week, no one wants to just say what they’re thinking.”

Scott scratches his head nervously. “Do you want to talk about why...uh, why you smell like...” 

He doesn’t finish his sentence, but Stiles figures it out anyway. He blushes and looks down at his feet. “Oh.” He can feel Scott’s eyes boring a hole in the back of his head, but he doesn’t look up. He can’t.

“It’s okay,” Scott says quietly, reassuringly, patting Stiles’ shoulder. “I mean...he’s not...” He breaks off again, looking even more uncomfortable. “Shit, this is hard. I mean, he’s not, like...molesting you, is he?”

Stiles groans, covering his face. “God. No, dude.”

“Okay, okay!” Scott raises his palms in surrender. “That’s good. That makes it, uh, better.” He bends over, trying to catch Stiles’ eye. “So...it’s consensual.” 

There’s not really a question there, but Scott is looking at him like he’s expecting some sort of response. “Yes, it’s totally consensual. And safe.”

Scott blanches. “So you let him...” - he makes a series of hand motions that Stiles can’t even begin to interpret - “...you know...”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Okay then.”

There’s a long pause, then Stiles reiterates his point from earlier. “I want you on my side.”

Scott looks grateful for the change of subject, and he pats Stiles’ knee. “I’m on your side, Stiles. Always.”

It’s like a weight they didn’t even know was there is suddenly vanished from their shoulders.

***

He goes home after that, counting his lucky stars that his dad is still on night shift cleaning up the mess from the shooting.

Derek is waiting for him in his room.

“Fucking hell...” Stiles clutches his chest, collapsing back against the door with a groan. “Shit, dude. You scared the hell out of me!”

But Derek’s moving forward, grasping Stiles by the biceps and pulling him forward, bending down to nuzzle against his cheek, and Stiles’ words just sort of catch in his throat.

“I saw the truck flip,” Derek says, and Stiles can’t remember ever hearing him so broken. “I thought I’d lost you.”

Stiles swallows the lump in his throat, turning to press a chaste kiss against the corner of Derek’s mouth. “I’m here,” he murmurs. “I’m alive.”

They lie together on the bed, folded together under the sheets, entangled in each other’s arms. They don’t kiss or talk or whisper or make love. They don’t even move.

They simply exist within the comfort of each other’s touch.

War can wait another day.

Tonight is for the lovers. Tonight is for the quiet.

They fall into the welcome embrace of slumber. 

And there are no dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously, there is more to come. I plan on this ultimately being a 5-part series.


End file.
